


Solidarity

by strawberriez8800



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27541372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriez8800/pseuds/strawberriez8800
Summary: Eames is hiding in the arse-end of the world for Christmas. Arthur joins him, without permission.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

The sun bears down with its 40-degree heat five days before Christmas. Eames’s drink arrives, glass chock-full of ice with half as much beer. There’s something satisfying about being half-naked and near bloody _baking_ in the middle of December. Australians don’t know how good they have it.

At the beach, Eames sips his beer in the shade, watching nothing and everything at once. He’s alone in this hemisphere as far as he’s concerned. No soul about who’d have the slightest chance of recognising him. Eames is about to let himself bask in this luxury after the last eight months of personal hell that was the McCain job, but of course his peace is promptly interrupted by the sight of Arthur.

Arthur, sitting at a table not quite far from Eames, with a drink of his own. He’s close enough that Eames knows Arthur wants to be seen, but far enough to make Eames wonder if he could get away with pretending he hasn’t noticed Arthur.

Arthur doesn’t let Eames decide, because as soon as Eames’s gaze brushes over him he stands up and walks over.

“Eames,” Arthur says. Without an invitation he sets his drink down and takes the seat across from Eames. He sets his eyes on Eames, easy and confident, like he’s got the answers to questions Eames hasn’t even thought to ask.

“Annual leave. Piss off.” Eames takes a large gulp of his beer—god it feels fucking great going down—and stares past Arthur at the group of rowdy kids in the water.

“There’s no such thing as leave in our world,” Arthur says, and the little bastard has the gall to smile while saying it. Bloody workaholic. “That being said, I’m not here about a job. I’m not here for anything really.”

Eames peers at Arthur over his sunglasses, who looks like a goddamned Ken doll with his tan and designer shirt and shorts. “Yeah, so you stalked me half-way around the world for nothing, is that it.”

“Would you believe me if I said this was a coincidence?” There’s that assurance in his smile that Eames has seen more times than he can count, but never outside of a job. It’s a strange thing.

“No,” Eames says, not missing a beat. “Not with your track record.”

“I research people for a living, Eames. Not as a hobby,” Arthur tells him, his voice half-drowned out by a child screeching nearby for attention.

“Why are you here then?” Eames struggles to hide the annoyance in his voice. It’s not that he dislikes Arthur; it’s just Arthur reminds him of work—hell, he _is_ work incarnate—and that is not something Eames needs right now.

“My sister moved here two years ago. She’s been nagging me to visit since, so here I am.” Arthur frowns a little, like he’s wary of the prospect. “I’m an _uncle_ now, Eames. What the fuck.” He finishes the rest of his drink and orders another.

The abrupt onset of such a mundane topic pushes Eames off-kilter, just a bit, like trying to walk a straight line after half a drink too many. “Um,” he begins, “congratulations?”

“Save it,” Arthur says, finishing his glass. “If I’d planned to have any kids in my life at all, I would _not_ be in my line of work.”

“Practical,” Eames agrees. “Yet here you are.”

Arthur shrugs. “I’ve done worse.” He looks at Eames, mouth pulled into a wry smile. “You would know.”

They drink for the rest of the afternoon, until Eames gets a little more than tipsy and Arthur calls a taxi for him.

* * *

It’s 10 p.m. on Christmas Eve, and Eames is in his hotel room, with the TV running in the background as he fills in his sudoku booklet; he can’t help but feel like an 80-year-old when he’s doing shit like this, yet he’s far beyond the precipice of giving a fuck, so here he is.

He’s onto his seventh puzzle when his phone buzzes with a message from an unknown sender. There’s no one in the world who knows Eames’s number, so by this reason it could only be Arthur.

 _Help me,_ the message reads. _I got toddler vomit on me and took three showers._

Eames smirks at that, and puts his phone away without responding. It’s not a message that warrants a reply, and Arthur is likely drunk after that particular horror story.

His phone chimes again. _Where are you staying?_ Arthur asks.

Eames stares at the screen, finger hovering over the reply button.

This time it is a message that warrants a reply, so Eames does, eventually, because there’s no reason to avoid Arthur after he had presented no threat of pulling Eames into another clusterfuck of a job.

After all, Eames is not so deluded to tell himself he is above a one night stand, with Arthur no less.

* * *

Arthur shows up at Eames’s door with enough clarity in his eyes that Eames doesn’t consider sending him straight back to Arthur’s sister.

When Eames opens the door, Arthur points upwards with a grin. “Mistletoe.”

“There’s one at _every_ door, Arthur. It’s a bloody hotel on Christmas Eve,” Eames says as he lets Arthur in.

Arthur glances around the room, eyes settling on the sudoku and pen on Eames’s bed. “Festive,” he says as he throws himself on the mattress.

“Now it is,” Eames says, voice dry. “What are you doing here?”

“Hiding.” Arthur closes his eyes. “Just like you are.” His voice softens at the end into a whisper, like a half-hearted secret.

“Right.” Eames grabs his booklet and pen, and settles into the chair beside the bed. Without another word he continues with the puzzle that Arthur had interrupted him from, trying to ignore Arthur’s presence that seems to take up more space than possible, both in Eames’s room and in his mind as though he’s got the right to any of it—

This is, honestly, ridiculous.

Eames snaps his book shut. “I’m asking you again. Why are you here?”

Arthur doesn’t respond for so long that for a moment Eames thinks he has fallen asleep, but he peeks at Eames with an open eye. “The better question is: why are you _there_?” he says, voice low, as he grants Eames once again that easy smile.

The smile that says more than any words could. The smile that Eames has grown all too familiar with yet feels so foreign at once, like finally coming home.

Home. It's been a while since Eames has thought of such a thing. It's jarring more than anything, yet he takes it regardless. So he tells Arthur, "I'm here now," before he closes the gap between them.

* * *

The next morning, Eames awakes to an empty bed and the smell of Arthur’s cologne mixed with sex. Faint, like a hazy memory. Sunlight scatters into the room between half-drawn curtains, unabashed, casting a glow over all that seems a faraway dream, a smeared sketch.

Eames isn’t disappointed at Arthur’s departure, nor is he surprised, so he simply closes his eyes again and lets sleep reel him back because it’s 7 a.m. on bloody Christmas and he deserves more sleep than this.

He awakes again two hours later. This time, he finally notices the piece of paper tucked beneath his phone on the nightstand.

The message says in Arthur’s hand-writing:

_Lunch at my sister’s? 34 Watson Avenue, West Beach. 12:30. See you then. Or not. Merry Christmas._

_— Arthur_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to add a second (and last) chapter, but inspiration struck.

The sight of Arthur holding a toddler with chocolate smeared on his cheek is an endearing one. The thought slips into Eames’s mind easily, like water through fingers. It stops there, though; he doesn’t voice anything close to it.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” Arthur says at the doorstep, voice too honest to be anything less than surprised.

“Was it only a courtesy invitation?” Eames says, feigning hurt. “My apologies.” He starts to turn around before Arthur says—

“Eames, come on.”

He grins. “Just messing with you.” He holds out the bottle of wine he picked up at the off-licence on the way. “Merry Christmas.”

Arthur lets him in and introduces him to his niece, Jen. Eames gives the child a cursory greeting, trying to instill something a little more than indifference in his voice, though by the look Arthur shoots him, he has failed utterly.

A woman bustles into the hallway, brown hair tied up in a bun and an apron half-done around her waist. “Arthur, what’s going on—there’s chocolate on your face—” she rubs a thumb across Arthur’s cheek, with him muttering a quiet “stop fussing, Charlie” as she fusses.

That is how Eames meets the first (and second) of Arthur’s family, three years from day one.

* * *

An hour into lunch, this is what Eames has learned: Charlie is a single mother whom Eames is more impressed by than he’d admit; Jen is the most demanding two-year-old to exist; Arthur is decent with children when he tries.

There are a few gems Eames has learned about Arthur too, by courtesy of Charlie’s stories. Like how as a child Arthur once tried to jump on a lily pad on a pond to imitate frogs. Or how Arthur used to kiss his hand as practice before going on a date.

“You’ll have to think twice about crossing me now,” Eames tells him when they’re doing the dishes for Charlie. “With what I know about you.”

Arthur looks at him, unfazed. “If you think my ego can’t stand a few embarrassing stories, think again,” he says. “But seriously. Don’t be stupid.”

“There’s nothing stupid about gathering blackmail content, darling.”

“No, I mean about me crossing you. It’s not funny, because I wouldn’t.” Arthur turns away as he loads the plates into the dishwasher. “Don’t joke about it.”

Eames pauses, unsure of how to respond before he simply says, “All right. Sorry.” He looks at Arthur out of the corner of his eye carefully, but Arthur keeps on, unperturbed.

They hover in silence for a few beats, awkward, until Eames blurts out, “You’re wondering if I’d do the same for you.”

“I’m not,” Arthur says, shrugging. “I know you wouldn’t.”

The nonchalance with which Arthur said those words hits Eames harder than he’d expect it to. “Wow, don’t bloody sugarcoat it. I might get ahead of myself with how highly you think of me.”

Arthur glances at him with a raised brow. “You’re pragmatic, Eames. I don’t—wouldn’t—blame you for it.” He frowns. “I’m sorry if I offended you.”

Arthur is right, but it doesn’t sting any less to see Arthur believe— _know_ it with such conviction. So Eames remains quiet and continues to load the dishwasher.

* * *

Eames receives a job offer on New Year’s Eve. It’s an urgent one that requires him to board the next flight to Barcelona should he accept it. He does without another thought; there’s not much keeping him here besides the beaches and the sun, and the heatwave in this city has long stayed past its welcome.

Arthur, it seems, has an uncanny sense of timing, because he stops by Eames’s hotel room as he’s packing for the flight. Eames entertains the thought of denying Arthur, but there’s nothing to lose either way, so what the hell.

When Eames opens the door, Arthur peers around his shoulder into the room. “Leaving so soon,” Arthur says, and it’s not a question.

“I go where the next job takes me.” Eames walks back into the room and hears the door click behind him as Arthur closes it.

“What happened to annual leave?” Arthur asks, and underneath the lightness of his voice Eames hears the curiosity.

“Change of plans, though there wasn’t much of one to begin with,” Eames tells him. “Not everyone needs a spreadsheet to run his life, mate.” With this he tosses Arthur a half-hearted smile and continues to pack.

“Hey, that’s unfair.” Arthur sits on the edge of the bed, over Eames’s clothes. He swats Eames’s hand away when Eames tries to pull them from underneath him. “I’ll tell you what happened to my _plan_ , Eames.”

“Hmm?”

‘I’m staying here for a while.” Arthur’s voice is slow, deliberate, like he doesn’t want Eames to miss anything. “Charlie needs some help and I thought, why not? After Fischer, I wouldn’t say no to some time off. You know.”

“Yeah, I know.” Eames looks up from his suitcase. “Still, that I wasn’t expecting.”

Arthur’s gaze darts away, then it’s back on Eames again. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to stay, too.”

Eames frowns, unsure of what to make of it. “What, with you?”

Arthur only shrugs, but Eames doesn’t miss the way the tips of Arthur’s ears are turning red in the afternoon light through sheer curtains. “I just think we could both use the break from it all,” Arthur says eventually. “Also, I don’t mind your company,” he adds with a lazy grin.

“What an honour,” Eames says, rolling his eyes. “Thanks but no thanks, darling.”

Arthur keeps Eames’s clothes out of reach when Eames tries to grab them again, and without warning Eames lunges at him and pins him against the bed. Arthur doesn’t even try to resist; he simply smiles up at Eames. “Come on, we had fun together,” Arthur says, his breath fanning softly against Eames’s cheek. “And we both know you have more than enough money to live ten times over, so don’t even try that.”

“Wasn’t going to.” Eames takes back his clothes and lifts himself off of Arthur. “Go back to Charlie and Jen. Be a good brother and uncle, why don’t you.”

Arthur rises to his feet. “Fine,” he says, sighing. “But I tried, Eames. I really did.”

* * *

The clock strikes midnight when Eames is at the airport. It’s quiet in the departure hall at the turn of the new year, with the TV playing a live feed of fireworks at some square or another.

Eames’s phone buzzes with Arthur’s call. The man is relentless when he wants to be; the only reason Eames picks up is because Arthur may just catch the next plane to Barcelona if only to get another word in.

“Happy new year,” Arthur says when Eames answers the phone. It seems he doesn’t intend to let Eames speak, because he continues with, “I was thinking, Eames. I was thinking I didn’t try hard enough.”

“You’re drunk, mate.”

“A little bit,” Arthur admits. “But my question remains. Why do you insist on leaving me?”

Eames pauses, wondering if he has misheard Arthur. “I’m not leaving you,” he says, though he knows he’s just arguing semantics at this point. “I’m only leaving. There’s a difference.”

Because leaving Arthur would suggest Eames ever had him to begin with.

“I know you think you’re alone and that you’re best off alone, Eames,” Arthur says, voice slurring a bit more this time, and Eames thinks about hanging up. “But you’re not. Alone, I mean.”

“All right,” Eames says mildly, knowing Arthur wouldn’t remember this phone call the next morning when Eames is half-way across the world.

“You’re a bastard sometimes,” Arthur says. “But—shit, I’m gonna sound stupid saying this, but you’re also the most honest person I know. God, isn’t that weird?”

“Yes it is, Arthur,” Eames says, and before he knows it he is smiling to himself.

“You’re resourceful. You’re practical. You’re reliable when it counts, and that—that is, fuck, I can’t say how much I _love_ that,” Arthur continues. “Oh, and you’re also a really, really good lay.”

“Go on,” Eames says, because he could listen to this all night.

There’s a pause on the line before Arthur says, “I think that’s it.”

The announcement for Eames’s flight drowns out the rest of Arthur’s words. “I have to go,” Eames tells him. “Go to bed. Sleep it off, and let’s hope you won’t remember a thing from the last ten minutes.”

“Yeah, okay,” Arthur says, followed by what sounds like a yawn.

“Happy new year,” Eames says, then he adds, tentative: “Oh, Arthur?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

With that, Eames ends the call and boards the plane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is quite different from what I usually write for Arthur and Eames. I wanted to explore this side of Eames more, because from the movie he really does seem like a lone wolf, and I like to think that Arthur is the one who gets through to him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had to add another chapter for Valentine's Day, though it is a bit different from a Valentine's Day fic you might expect. Regardless, I hope you like this!

It feels like two days ago when Eames last set foot on this doorstep. The thought comforts and scares him at once. It’s a comfort because he knows Arthur’s been here, lived here in his absence—though he wouldn’t admit aloud that Arthur’s presence brings him such reassurance; it scares him because it has, in fact, been two months.

Two months in the real world, no less. In the real world any time that passes feels so much more _expensive._ Eames tries not to think too hard about it.

He rings the bell, and before long Arthur sister—Charlie opens the door. It’s rather late in the evening and Eames does feel guilty for imposing, but needs must.

She smiles at him, and it’s a smile that tells him she’s forgotten who he is. Almost. “Hi—you’re oh, Arthur’s friend. How are you? Sorry, god, I’m so bad with names...”

“Eames,” he says quickly. “I’m good, thank you.” He stops there, not knowing how to put into words what he wants.

For a moment they hover awkwardly until Charlie asks, “Are you here for Arthur? Of course you are, what I am saying. He doesn’t live here anymore, actually.”

Eames’s stomach sinks. So Arthur’s packed up and left the continent without a single word. “Right, got it—”

“He bought a flat two streets over last month,” Charlie adds. She tells him that Arthur was secretly going insane living with a single mother and a toddler, until Charlie forced him to move out and told him that no, she did _not_ need him there.

“He must’ve hated knowing that,” Eames muses aloud.

“That’s all right,” she says, smiling. “He has you, doesn’t he.”

Eames doesn’t know how to respond, so he simply bids goodbye and heads to the address Charlie has given him. Two streets down lies a small block of apartment that is hard to miss, with its Victorian architecture in the midst of glass and steel.

He comes all this way only to remember Charlie telling him that Arthur is away working. It’s times like this he hates Arthur for not having a consistent phone number to simply _call_ him at. Still, requirements of keeping elusive from the law and lawless and all that.

Nonetheless, with his repertoire he manages to let himself in without too much drama. He allows himself a moment of hesitation before deciding that yes, this is no doubt Arthur’s flat—spotless, impersonal yet so Arthur all the same because the man doesn’t go anywhere without his Soleil Blanc.

The knowledge puts Eames at such ease it’s almost crippling. Yet he’s had the past two months to come to terms with Arthur and the things this man had spilled over the phone at the turn of the new year.

So he welcomes this acceptance and makes himself at home as he waits. Eames falls asleep to Arthur’s scent that night, and he dreams of the snow and sun.

* * *

For the next two weeks Arthur doesn’t come back. What does arrive at the door is a box of chocolates and a bouquet of roses. _Happy Valentine’s Day,_ the card reads. For a second Eames wonders if he’s pining over someone who’s long moved on, before he notices it’s signed by the bloody apartment concierge.

He leaves the flowers on the table and eats the chocolates.

* * *

Six days later, Arthur comes home past midnight. When Eames awakes, Arthur is already undressing in the dark. Eames thinks the only reason he hasn’t been incapacitated in his sleep, mistaken for a malicious intruder, is because Arthur can sense his presence just as much as Eames could him, or more.

“How does 2000 thread count feel?” Arthur asks when Eames stirs.

“Like you,” Eames says, unable to hide a little smirk as he watches the clothes come off of Arthur—jacket first, then the belt, pants, and shirt until Arthur is in his underwear. In the sliver of moonlight that peeks through the curtains, Eames sees that Arthur is moving a little awkwardly. “You’re hurt.”

Arthur shrugs and crawls gingerly into bed beside Eames. “It’s been dealt with,” he says in the dark. “I’m too tired right now, so we’re going to talk tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Eames agrees.

* * *

The next morning, Eames finds Arthur in the ensuite bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, he’s changing the bandages for what looks like a bullet wound on his arm. It’s all a little clumsy, but it’s Arthur so by normal standards he is managing well enough.

“You could never stay away for long,” Eames finds himself saying. “What happened?”

Arthur glances up, smiling wryly. “Well, I’m a consultant now so I _am_ staying away. This was a one time deal.”

“Sure.” Eames approaches him and takes the first aid kit. Arthur doesn’t bother to protest and lets Eames take over, so in the quiet morning light they sit together as Eames patches him up.

* * *

“You know, eventually you’re gonna have to tell me what’s going on,” Arthur says to Eames over coffee and toast in his flat. “And also why there’s a bunch of dying flowers on my table.”

“One, I’m here because I want to be. Two, you’re definitely getting your money’s worth for this place. Does the concierge send you condoms as well?”

“I have a weekly subscription, yes,” Arthur says, smiling. “Should I add you to the list?”

“Rather presumptuous, aren’t we.”

“Eames, you broke into my apartment, slept in my bed and ate my food.” Arthur takes a sip of his black coffee. “And I recall you saying you _want_ to be here.”

“Shocking, I know.”

“Not really.”

“Fuck you.”

“If that’s what you want,” Arthur says, setting down his cup. “Tell me what you want, Eames.”

The thing is Eames knows he wants Arthur, and not just for sex, but how does one put a thing like that into words? So he simply says— “I’m sorry I left, and I want to make it up to you.”

“That’s a cop out and you know it,” Arthur says. “I’m not going to ask twice.”

“All right,” Eames says slowly, and he stays silent for so long he wonders if he can ever get these words out— “I want to be with you, Arthur. Or at least I want to try, because while I’m good at people I’m not good _with_ people,” he says, “if you’ll have me that is.” He didn’t mean to add the last part, but if he’s already at this point…

Arthur looks at Eames over the table, running his finger along the rim of his mug. “Okay,” he says eventually, “but you’re not moving in here, you know that.”

“Here I thought I was gonna get down on one knee.”

“Shut up, Eames,” Arthur rises from his chair and walks to Eames. “One step at a time, starting right here.”

Eames pulls him down for a kiss. “Done,” he mumbles against Arthur’s lips. “What’s step two?”

Arthur takes his hand and leads him back to bed.


End file.
